


Pillow Talk

by Milady_Kora



Category: Fire Emblem Series, Fire Emblem: Fuukasetsugetsu | Fire Emblem: Three Houses
Genre: Childhood Trauma/Memories, Fire Emblem: Three Houses Blue Lions Route, Friends to Lovers, Honesty, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Minor spoilers for Sylvain's backstory, Self-Reflection
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-08-10
Updated: 2020-08-31
Packaged: 2021-03-06 04:01:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 6,707
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25827091
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Milady_Kora/pseuds/Milady_Kora
Summary: "It’s late at night. Sylvain is in bed, turned on his side, fingers softly toying with the fabric under his cheek. His breaths are slow and regular and fill the silence in the dimly lit room. Something inside him opens, but he takes his time, waiting until that something grows big enough, before opening his mouth in a gentle whisper."Talking when you think nobody's listening is easy; for Sylvain, that has been the only way he could be honest with himself. But when the thing you're honest about is your crush on your childhood friend Felix, what do you do next? (Suppress it and say nothing, that's what - at least, until Felix's answer to your "jk... unless?" is a "yes")
Relationships: Felix Hugo Fraldarius & Sylvain Jose Gautier, Felix Hugo Fraldarius/Sylvain Jose Gautier
Comments: 4
Kudos: 43





	1. Stars, Candlelight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Look, the #fetransweek may not have shown it but Sylvix ate my brain and you better be prepared for more of their shenanigans.  
> Huge thanks to my beta [Ginko](https://twitter.com/ginkobean?s=20)!  
> Content warnings for: Discussion of canon-typical abuse and trauma, suicidal ideation, discussion of illness

It’s late at night. Sylvain is in bed, turned on his side, fingers softly toying with the fabric under his cheek. His breaths are slow and regular and fill the silence in the dimly lit room. Inside him, a door opens, but he takes his time, waiting until the crack becomes a gateway, before opening his mouth in a gentle whisper. He wants to tell the full story to himself, yearns for it as much as he usually yearns to keep the tale under lock and key.

“You know,” he starts, his voice raspy at first, “I’m not… good at being honest.”

His fingers comb through the red hair on his head, the single candle on his nightstand making his eyelashes cast long shadows onto his cheek.

“I don’t really know why. I mean, I do, actually. Long story.” Sylvain chuckles. “Well, of course it is, it started the day I was born. Probably before that, even."

His fingers drum a lone rhythm on his thigh.

“I… my father, the margrave – well, of course you know that,” he interrupts himself, “he wanted a kid with a crest. I think if I didn’t have one, he’d still have had more kids until some poor sap got lucky.” He sighs. “Except I came soon enough for him to stop fussing over the first step. It was never about me. Not once.”

A breeze comes through the half-open window, swaying the curtains and making the flame on the candle flutter. Sylvain looks in front of him, watching without actually seeing. His thumb strokes little circles, an automatic gift of tenderness that he bestows onto so many and yet so few people at the same time. He swallows. His throat feels heavy. 

“It wasn’t about me for my brother, either. Miklan. It was all just about my crest, and that I was to be the next heir of house Gautier. In his eyes, I would always come first. Or rather, I had pushed him away from the first place and taken it for myself. That that was never my intention didn’t matter to him. He hated me either way.”

Sylvain’s voice is calm, but he still takes a deep breath through his nose before continuing.

“So he… tried to kill me. Like you do, right? Your younger brother gets the inheritance, you push him down a well in return.”

As he talks, his thumb gradually slows down, the tension in his hand and arm increasing. When he blinks, the shadow of his eyelashes forms a claw and rakes over his cheek without leaving a trace.

“He’s dead now. He stole a relic and we had to clean up his mess. Again. So we went to Conand Tower and confronted him, and… I still don’t know whether the Lance acted on its own or whether he tried to do something without knowing what he’d get himself into. But point is, he turned into a monster. One of those crest beasts. Red eyes, sharp fangs, the usual.”

He exhales, keeping his breaths long.

“We didn’t have much of a choice but to kill him. My father didn’t even care. He was probably just happy he didn’t have to bother with him anymore.”

Sylvain turns onto his back for a moment, shifting around.

“Don’t get me wrong, I was, too, but… for different reasons. To my father, Miklan was nothing but an annoyance. He wanted the Gautier family to have a perfect image, and Miklan and I are stains on his record. Both of us. But at least I have a crest, so I must be worth something.”

He scoffs.

“Honestly, I don’t even know why he doesn’t try and have more children. Maybe one of them will have a crest, too, and then he can disown me and everyone will be happy.”

For a while, he’s silent, his chest rising and sinking with his quiet breaths. Shifting again, he lets his eyes wander over his room. It looks different at night, the starry sky a rectangle on the wall in an otherwise dark space. Nothing but vague shapes and shadows in various degrees of darkness. Sylvain wonders briefly whether he wants to blow out the candle, then turns back onto his side and continues talking, words fluttering from his mouth like butterflies. They only ever come out at night.

“I never wanted to hurt Miklan – or anyone, really. I would have gladly never been born at all. When I was a teenager, Miklan left me on a snowy mountain, and it was so tempting to just stay there. They say freezing to death isn’t as painful as other ways to die, so that seemed okay.”

He pauses.

“I don’t even really know why exactly I ended up forcing myself to get up and tried to find my way back to the estate amidst all the snow and cold wind. A blizzard came up, too, I think, because after a while there were no tracks to follow anymore. But maybe Miklan just made sure to erase them. Hell if I know.”

Sylvain blinks a few times.

“The housekeeper said that my hair was almost white from all the snow. I don’t even remember that. I just had pneumonia for a whole month afterwards. If it weren’t for the healer my father had ordered to come all the way from Fhirdiad, I’d have probably died.” His voice is amused and bitter at the same time. “What a disappointment that would have been for him, after all the money he spent on me.”

Again, Sylvain pauses for a while. When he speaks, his voice is quiet.

“You know, I don’t talk much about myself. Nothing of what I’ve just told you is a secret, everyone knows, but… I don’t talk a lot about it in a personal way. Just… detached. It’s easier like this. Less painful. But I do feel like a liar sometimes.”

He pauses, then corrects himself.

“Most of the time. I never wanted to be put in first place and hog all the attention and everything, and I don’t want to do that now, either. I mean, I can deal with my own stuff, so it’s only fair that I do that. Without taking anything away from other people.”

His fingers start to fidget again with the fabric, slipping the ivory buttons in and out through the closures. He licks his lips.

“Doesn’t mean I’m not jealous of those who get to come first. I hate it. I just… I try so hard to never be like Miklan because I don’t want to hurt anyone, but here I am, jealous of others for something they have no control over. Hell, it’s probably even worse because I know I could ask for help, but I just don’t. I don’t allow myself to get what I need and then I feel angry about those people who do. I guess I should probably work on that.”

He pauses for a second, then buries his face in the pillow next to him.

“I should probably work on a lot of things,” he mumbles.

The pillow doesn’t give an answer, and how could it? It’s a pillow. Nobody is actually listening except for the candle and the curtains and the stars in the rectangular night sky. Sylvain’s words gather around the candlelight, closer to moths than actual butterflies.

“Someday, I think I might. I hope. I mean – right now, my main reason would just be that I don’t want to be a burden on anyone, but that’s a shitty reason, isn’t it?”

His next breath is shaky.

“I just keep feeling like just my existence is a huge weight. I constantly hurt other people and make them angry simply because I can’t get over myself and start being a decent person, and – I feel like they deserve better. You might think that for this reason alone, I'd start working on things. But apparently I can’t even get myself to do that.”

He’s alone in his room, no girl with him for tonight. Sylvain likes it better this way: The pillow is a much better listener, filled with nothing but soft feathers and the kind of silence that allows him to be honest.

“For some reason, they’re still attached to me. And likewise, of course, but that’s me being selfish again.”

The curtain billows in a gentle breeze.

“Or maybe it isn’t. Maybe that’s just what friendship is like.” Almost as an afterthought, he adds: “Or love. Actual love, I mean. I wouldn’t know. Nobody’s ever given me any, as far as I can remember. How am I supposed to know what it feels like?”

The tension in his throat spreads into the rest of his body, his fist clenching around the pillowcase.

“My father never cared for me, my brother hated me and didn’t even try to hide it, my mother… I don’t know. She made sure I was fed and dressed properly and educated, but I don’t think that’s all a good parent is supposed to do. Even Rodrigue – even if he messed up, that didn’t stop him from caring for Felix. I kind of envy Felix for that, to be honest.”

Sylvain moves onto his back, staying there for a moment, before slowly sitting up. He turns his head towards the pillow.

“You know… if you were a real person and not, well, a pile of feathers, I wouldn’t be able to say any of this. I can barely admit stuff to myself, and talking about it with other people… I’d just end up pushing them away. Or more likely, they’d see how similar I am to Miklan - and unlike me, they’d be able to leave or resist or something. Although I guess it would be even worse if they weren’t. I’d just be constantly hurting them without meaning to, and they’d be tolerating it because – I don’t even know why.”

Sylvain shifts, leaning his back against the wall, and looks at the candle, the wax in the middle slowly melting as it forms a cavern around the flame, blocking its light. He feels like that, too – slowly sinking into his own sorrow, removing any way of escape even as he consumes it to fuel his actions and prolong his pathetic existence. He swallows.

“I… I don’t always want to live,” he whispers. “I don’t like thinking about it. The longer I do, the more I notice it, and the stronger it gets. I’ll be on the bridge to the cathedral, looking down into the valley, and then I just get… so afraid of my own mind, and what it’s capable of. A few weeks ago, after a battle, I didn’t bother to have a healer look at my wound and almost got it infected as a result. I’m not proud of that.”

His fingers now stroke over his own arm, his shoulder, his neck.

“It’s not that I want to die, because I know that would hurt so many people. Ingrid and Mercedes and Dimitri and Annette and all the others, and Felix.”

The last word sends a gentle smile onto his lips. The words flutter around his head and chest and through his entire body, their wings gently brushing against his lips.

"But I still don't always take care of myself as much as I think I should."

The pillow doesn’t answer. Neither does the candle, the curtain, or the star constellations glimmering in his window.

“Felix probably doesn’t even know how often he saved my life already without even doing anything. I think it was when I was in bed with pneumonia all those years ago. I had already been sick for two or three weeks and one day, he just came in and sat down on a chair next to the bed. Looked at me for… I don’t know how long. Felt like hours for me. I was probably running a high fever. At one point, I dozed off and when I woke up, he was still there. As the day went, I kept falling asleep and then waking up again from all those strange dreams, and it felt like the carpet was moving and my depth perception was off. So I can’t say for sure how many of my memories are accurate. But still… I'm certain that at one point, he moved from his chair to sit down at the other end of my bed, legs crossed. He always sat like that.”

Sylvain looks at the candle. The crater the flame buried itself is deep enough for the walls to slowly fold over and start melting like the rest of the candle.

“I think they brought in a second bed for Felix to stay with me, even though Rodrigue stayed in one of our guest chambers. And Gautier has plenty of those and they’re never in use. Just a whole empty wing of empty rooms.”

Sylvain lies down again, the pillow between him and the wall. His head rests on his elbow as he leans against the soft warmth behind his back.

“Felix didn’t use his bed, either. When I came back up from another one of those fever dreams he was next to me, fast asleep. I think it was late at night, I could see the moon reflecting in this hideous marble floor my room was tiled with. In the morning, Felix was gone, but he left behind a note in my hand.”

Without even registering, Sylvain uncurls his fingers and looks at his palm.

“Don’t die without me.”

He blinks slowly, letting out a slow breath through his nose.

“When I got better, we went to Fhirdiad for some important royal event. I was still a bit sick, but they still made me join them. My parents, I mean. Miklan got left behind, not for the first time... so maybe me coming with them was for the better. I had the note with me, with my answer written on it, and I was so relieved to see Felix there, too. He didn’t say anything about his visit, so I didn’t, either, but I slipped the note into his coat pocket when the opportunity presented itself.”

Sylvain sighs.

“So yeah, there went my only proof that all of it really happened. But I like to think that it did. I made a promise to him in that note, and no matter how bad things got, I always kept it.”

In a distance, he hears a bell tolling, counting the hours. It’s late. A lone drop of wax falls from the candle down onto the ceramic tray.

“Whether Felix remembers or not, I do. Maybe that’s all that matters.”

He’s silent for a moment, pondering his words.

“I think I can live with that.”

Slowly, Sylvain sits up and turns to look at the framed sky on his wall, admiring the midnight blue for a few minutes. When he gently blows out the candle, the stars only seem to sparkle brighter. It’s beautiful, he thinks to himself.

Some of his words set flight and leave for the fresh air outside, others remain with him, gently opening and closing their wings as they settle down around the room. It feels good to let them out occasionally. Easier to breathe afterwards, too.

Sylvain uses the newly found space in his lungs to yawn. He shifts around in his bed, drawing in his pillow so he can both wrap his arms around it and rest his cheek on the soft linen.

The light wisp of smoke from the candle smells nice. A breeze from outside ruffles his curtains before gently brushing through his hair, and Sylvain smiles.

“Thanks for listening,” Sylvain mutters to his pillow, the candle, the curtain and the night sky outside. “Tomorrow’s gonna be a new day.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sylvain: *tells a whacky childhood story* Oh, right, normal people think that's fucked up.
> 
> Stick around if you like, and come join me on twitter at [@MiladyKora](https://twitter.com/MiladyKora) so you can scream with me about Sylvix and Fire Emblem!


	2. Turqoise Ember

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> _"He looks at Felix, ready to speak his mind, but then stops. If he keeps talking right now, he’ll say it like he’s flirting, and he can’t do that. Felix deserves better than dressed-up words - the fact that, for once, he means them, doesn’t make it better._
> 
> _Another battalion marches past the knight hall, their armour clattering with each step. If only the night could go on forever. No war waiting for them, no fear and no expectations."_
> 
> The night before the Empire begins its conquest, Sylvain stays with Felix at the infirmary.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **Content warnings:** Mention of nightmares, death, killing; discussion of abuse, dissociation, canon-typical violence, sleep deprivation, war; portrayal of panic attacks, medical and supervised use of sleeping potions
> 
> Huge thanks to [Ginko](https://twitter.com/ginkobean) and [Jupe](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Jupe/works) for betaing!

The moon shines through the stained glass of the infirmary windows. Sylvain, his head leaned against the window frame, can hear some faint voices and shouts outside. The soldiers must be marching towards the knight hall.

Garreg Mach is preparing for war, and briefly, Sylvain wonders if he should be down there, with them, before shaking his head. His place is with the torches on the walls cracking occasionally, spitting out ember sparks that fade in their drift through the cool night air. And with Felix.

None of the sounds – not the shouting, not the sputtering torches, nothing captures his attention like the sound of Felix’s slow breaths. He’s stretched out on the narrow pallet under one of the infirmary’s knit blankets, curled up on himself. His face even looks a little relaxed, the eternal crease of his brow smoothed out, his academy uniform is neatly folded and stacked on the chair by the bedside. Sylvain can only take so much of the sight before looking away.

“So,” he says quietly. “Tomorrow, huh?”

He hears a dog howling outside; it’s probably the one always barking at the graves. Sylvain doesn’t like where that takes his thoughts, but he’s past the point of denial.

“We could all be dead tomorrow.”

He swallows. His voice is quiet, lacking its usual energy.

“I hope that doesn’t happen. I’m not… I’m not ready for that.” Sylvain laughs breathlessly, ignoring the way his eyes sting, and inhales sharply through his nose. “Surprisingly enough. You’d think I would be, with… well, with everything.”

He takes another look at Felix and slowly walks a few steps towards him, crouching by his bedside. Several strands of navy hair have escaped from Felix's night-time braid; as they spread out over the pillow, they cross in a woven pattern. The stained-glass window dyes the moonlight turquoise, turning the way his chest rises and falls with every breath into a flawless tide.

Asleep as he is, Felix truly looks like he’s drifting out on the water, floating effortlessly together with the waves.

Even as Sylvain relishes in this sight, he still has to remind himself that he’s not doing anything bad. Awake, Felix doesn’t like to be stared at, bristles from the attention. But nobody’s hurt from Sylvain taking a moment to look at Felix, actually look at him instead of stealing glances during dinner, during class, during the training sessions. Sylvain can allow himself a little selfishness. For all he knows, they might die tomorrow, with the Empire’s army marching ever closer to Garreg Mach.

“I probably don’t have to worry about you,” Sylvain murmurs gently, pride and admiration filling his chest. “You’re going to pull through, and defeat everyone and everything in your way. Odds are I’ll have to look out for myself more than for you.”

With how low the infirmary beds are, they’re almost at eye level. Sylvain’s fingers are only centimetres short of brushing over Felix’s cheek before he notices and quickly pulls his hand back. His hunched position is starting to get uncomfortable, so Sylvain throws a quick glance at Felix’s folded clothes and decides to free the chair up for himself.

The linen is soft in his hands when Sylvain picks up the uniform and takes it towards the table on the other side of the room. As he’s about to deposit the clothes, he finds himself lingering. His fingers trace the goldwork embroidery. The silk thread gleams softly underneath the torches, and Sylvain marvels at how different it looks now, away from the daylight.

Sylvain forces himself to let go of the clothes, then walks back to Felix. The wooden chair creaks underneath him when he sits down, and he curses internally. The last thing he wants to do is take away those last hours of solace from Felix. Felix, who stayed awake for days, doing nothing but training or following Dimitri around to the point of near collapse.

Awake for days. Sylvain swallows. The memories flee from the tip of his tongue before he can even catch on and seal them away.

“You don’t deserve to be sleep deprived. I know what it feels like. I’ve been there.”

Felix’s breaths are slow and steady. Sylvain’s are not.

“After Conand Tower, I... I’d close my eyes and he was there, with the damn Lance taking control.”

Sylvain blinks, then abruptly shakes his head. He inhales through his mouth, trying to gather the oxygen at the back of his throat.

“I hope you didn’t get to that point where you’re so tired that your muscles just stop doing what you want them to, and you can’t control your thoughts.”

Sylvain doesn’t even want to think about how it feels, but he can’t help it. The images trickle past his defenses and onto his tongue.

“And when you’re scared, it’s ten times worse. It took me several days to even start feeling like I was in control of my own body again,” he whispers. “Everything I did felt completely mechanical. I hate it, and… I’ve done everything I can to never return to that point.”

The shadows on the walls look like they’re growing in size until they’re towering over Sylvain. He’s afraid now, too, because who wouldn’t be? Who wouldn’t be terrified at the prospect of death tomorrow, dying at the hands of an entire nation’s army about to invade them?

Sylvain inhales, then exhales slowly. Again. And again. Tries to sync his rhythm to Felix’s, focus on his breathing, and gradually, it works. His vision readjusts and he gets some feeling back into his limbs. Then, for the first time, he notices the bags under Felix’s eyes.

“Wow,” Sylvain whispers, exhaling. “For you to actually agree to Manuela’s proposal of taking a sleeping potion before the battle tomorrow… how bad was it, Felix?”

Very bad, probably. Felix and Sylvain are the same in this one regard: the only circumstance where they ask for help is an absolute emergency.

“I… I wish you’d told me.” Sylvain looks down for a moment, his fingers fidgeting, then back at Felix. “Why didn’t you?”

The question is a tentative, careful one, and Sylvain scoffs when he finds an answer just moments after the words were released into the night. His mouth twists into a sarcastic grin; it often does that, turning Sylvain’s face into a vibrant mask when what he really wants to do is hide away.

“Well, I didn’t listen when you talked about Dimitri. And you were right about him.”

Slowly, Sylvain’s expression fades into an apologetic smile.

“So… I guess that’s on me. I’m sorry. I should have known better.”

Sylvain’s voice cracks a little when he thinks of how long Felix must have carried his knowledge around with him. Years. Guilt creeps up inside of him.

“You kept warning us, even though nobody believed you and we all insisted he was doing fine and there was nothing wrong with him. Worse, when he ordered us to kill everyone in Remire Village, we just assumed he had his reasons. Or we told ourselves that he didn’t really mean it. But he did.”

Sylvain thinks back to the Holy Tomb again, tells himself that it’s really about the Holy Tomb. Except it isn’t. “He killed someone with his bare hands and... smiled. As if he was enjoying the violence. And you knew all along and everything you did was in vain.”

A torch sputters, the stone wall blackening with soot.

“I’m sorry. I know how you feel,” he sighs.. “Well, for me… Miklan is dead. And of course someone else is going to take his place now, because when has it ever been easy for me?”

Sylvain’s voice has been getting louder; he notices and tones down again.

“Sorry. Didn’t mean to make this about me again. And I know they’re different. It’s just…”, he swallows, “I’m scared. Dimitri is terrifying. I have no idea if we can even trust him in what’s about to come.”

Felix shifts a bit in his sleep and mumbles something incoherent.

“What I’m saying is… maybe it’s too late, but I believe you now. However you feel about Dimitri, I understand. And I’m truly sorry for not trusting you earlier.”

When the next thought hits him, it hurts, and his mouth twists back into the familiar grin.

“I should have known that there can be more to a person than what can be seen on the surface. Behind those,” Sylvain’s voice grows bitter as he clenches his fists, “those damned walls and public smiles. I’m the last person that should be surprised about this, but of course I didn’t even bother to actually listen.”

All of this comes out in an angry whisper. Sylvain would like to scream at himself as much as the next person (and as much as Felix, probably), but making sure Felix can sleep comes first. So Sylvain gets up again, carefully making sure the chair doesn’t creak, and goes back towards the window.

“You can’t hear me, Felix, can you?”, he murmurs as a breeze from outside ruffles his hair, carrying the question away. He doesn’t know which of the two options he prefers, actually. The possibility of Felix not only hearing, but remembering his words terrifies him, but so does the possibility of it being all for nothing. He doesn’t want this to be in vain - opening up is difficult enough as it is.

“You know, I tried to talk to a pillow some time ago. Actually turned out great.” Sylvain’s voice is sarcastic, but he’s not sure if he means it. “Learned a lot about myself, let some stuff go… You should try that sometime. Doesn’t even have to be a pillow if that’s too soft for you. Talk to your sword. Or the people around you, for a change.”

Why is he attacking Felix now? It’s not that he’s any better, if it comes down to it. Quite the opposite, actually. At least Felix doesn’t routinely break girls’ hearts. The worst he does is shout at Sylvain for it, and they both know it’s deserved.

But still…

“What do you really think about me, Felix?”

If there’s one thing he knows about Felix, it’s that he’s honest. He has never hesitated to call anyone out on their bullshit – not even Ingrid, righteous and honorable Ingrid, is safe from him in that regard. So if Felix’s words are to be believed, Sylvain has no reason to be here - Felix displaying anything even remotely friendly towards Sylvain can be counted on one hand. But then why would Manuela have asked him, him specifically, to stay with Felix for the night?

Felix scowls, as if reading his thoughts, and Sylvain’s chuckle fills the room with warmth. “As much as you deny it, Felix, I think you might actually care about me.” Sylvain turns back around, facing the room, and leans his back against the wall. “You’d be so annoyed if you were awake right now. Too bad.”

He smiles, relaxing his shoulders and allowing his head to rest on the cool stone behind him.

“I bet you’d tell me you have no idea why you’re putting up with me.” Sylvain raises his hands in a good-natured shrug. “Can’t help you there, buddy, I have no idea. Answering the other way round is definitely much easier. Even if we ignore that I’m good at complimenting people.”

He looks at Felix, ready to speak his mind, but then stops. If he keeps talking right now, he’ll say it like he’s flirting, and he can’t do that. Felix deserves better than dressed-up words - the fact that, for once, he means them, doesn’t make it better.

Another battalion marches past the knight hall, their armour clattering with each step. If only the night could go on forever. No war waiting for them, no fear and no expectations.

Sylvain walks back to his chair and sits down before taking a deep breath. His eyes follow the ornate waves of Felix’s braid.

“You’re always… headstrong and always yourself, and you never lie. You’re able to speak your mind - and you don’t even have to fear other people’s reactions because you can defend yourself.” Sylvain’s voice is soft. “And you keep working hard to make sure you’re strong enough for every fight, whether it’s here or on the battlefield.” He smiles. “That’s pretty much the exact opposite of who I am. And I might not admit it, but I’m glad you’re here to keep me in line. I can always trust your judgment, you know that?”

Sylvain gets up and slowly walks around the infirmary. One of the torches is already close to burning out.

“I still worry about you, though. I know I probably don’t have to, but just because you’re honest about other people does not mean you’re honest about yourself.”

He gives Felix a pointed glare. “Trust me, I’m an expert in that regard. The only difference is, I lie to myself to keep everything out, and you don’t even wait for the truth to catch up. But you know me, running is so much more effort, so why would I do that?” Sylvain chuckles. There isn’t a lot of honesty to that laugh, either. “It’s probably only a question of time until one of us fails.”

Except Sylvain will have no option but to keep up his false facade. He will have no other choice but to date around, breaking the heart of every girl naive enough to fall for his pretentious tales. It’s pathetic, really, and of course he has nobody to blame for this but himself.

He pats himself on the shoulder, his voice drenched with sarcasm. “Thanks, past Sylvain, I owe you one.”

Felix moves in his sleep, briefly furrowing his brows. Sylvain hears the bed sheets rustling underneath his weight.

“Don’t give me that look, Felix, you’re not any better. If anything, you could probably teach me a thing or two.” Sylvain pauses for a moment. “Actually, that sounds pretty tempting. Hey, Felix, can you teach me how to run away from the truth? Blocking it out doesn’t seem to do it anymore.”

Sylvain doesn’t even know who he’s angry at, and why, and if he’s angry at all. Maybe he’s just trying to fill the silence with words so there won’t be any room for something he can’t control. He probably is.

So he decides to shut up for a moment. See what happens. Maybe running from the truth is easier in silence.

Seconds pass, then a few minutes. It’s not that bad, actually. Sylvain listens to Felix’s breaths, watches him stir in bed every once in a while. He already knew the night air had a very distinct sound compared to what it’s like during the day, carrying its own special kind of energy he has never been able to describe. But it’s still nice to be reminded of it, and he enjoys the cool breeze from outside brushing past him.

Sylvain walks back to his chair, sits down, then turns his head to look around the infirmary. There’s an unlit candle on the nightstand, and Sylvain wonders for a moment if he wants to light it. He decides against that - the green moonlight is much prettier.

His eyes pass the table he left Felix’s clothes on. There used to be a vase on there; Manuela always made sure it was filled with flowers. She’d buy them at her own expense, too, because no bouquet she ever got from her admirers survived the eventual breakup. Now, the vase is gone. There’s no room for flowers with a war on the horizon, of course, but Sylvain can’t help but feel sad about it.

He taps his fingers on his thigh. He could go to sleep, he thinks and looks at the second cot close to Felix’s.

Sylvain stays where he is. It’s too early for him to go to sleep, even if it’s probably late enough for him to be the last person awake at Garreg Mach. Wouldn’t it be just their luck if the Empire chose to attack now.

Another breeze flows in through the window and ruffles Felix’s hair. If Sylvain thought this sight couldn’t get any more beautiful - well, he was clearly wrong.

He swallows. There’s something he wants to say, and it’s the perfect opportunity, too. Felix is asleep, nobody is listening, there are no strings attached. Sylvain takes a sharp breath and opens his mouth, then exhales and closes it again.

His fingers drum a fast-paced rhythm.

“Damn,” he whispers. “This is exactly why I never shut up. Silence can really draw things out of you, and I don’t- not even I would be pathetic enough to openly lie when there’s nobody there to listen.” His form shakes a little as he chuckles. “So yeah, I usually make sure I’m never without company.”

Sylvain shifts around, pulling up his legs so he can sit on his heels. The chair is getting uncomfortable.

“Anyway. I...”

No, that’s not it. This isn’t how he wants to say it. Or maybe it’s an excuse to keep the secret for even longer.

“Saints, I might die tomorrow and I can’t get myself to say something,” he whispers. “It’s not even a big deal.”

Sure, Sylvain thinks. Taunts. That will do it. He looks over at Felix, at his closed eyes.

“Can you keep a secret, Felix? I don’t think… I don’t think I even - care about girls. At least, not like they want me to.” Wow, that sounded pitiful, even for his standards. “I mean- I think I… I might prefer men?” That doesn’t sound much better, but what comes out of Sylvain’s mouth next is definitely something he didn’t intend to say.

“Anyway, I might also have a type.”

And that’s the point where he stops.

“Yeah, I definitely said too much. That’s enough secrets for one night.” He looks at Felix, then down. “So, uh, thanks for being asleep. You’re a huge help, buddy.”

Sylvain pauses for a moment. He doesn’t even know why he said all of this. So much to learning from Felix and running from the truth, and he doesn’t even feel any better now that he said it, not really. At best, he’s a little less tense, but probably not even that.

“Great,” he mutters. “If my life ends up like my father wants it to, there was no point in telling you. And if it doesn’t, I’ll have to risk telling you again.”

He laughs. It’s too quiet around him.

“I should have saved the confession for my deathbed, but of course I only realise this after it was too late. Clearly, I suck at being melodramatic,” he scoffs. “Even Lorenz could do a better job at this, not to mention Dorothea or Manuela.” How fitting, actually, that he’s in the infirmary right now. His thoughts drift to Dorothea, then the rest of the Black Eagle’s students and then the Empire. He swallows. “The war is going to be atrocious, isn’t it? We… we’ll probably have to kill people we know.”

Sylvain shifts again, drawing up his knees to his chest. He feels like he’s a little kid again, slowly learning that the world is not a good place to be alive in.

“And even if we don’t know them and they’re only anonymous soldiers… I don’t want to be the one out there, taking lives. But hey, maybe it will get easier with time.” He inhales sharply. “I hope not. I don’t want to- I don’t want it to be easy for me to hurt other people. Not like that.”

Sylvain stares in front of himself for a while. You can get over a broken heart, but there is no getting over a literal blade stuck in your chest.

“Guess I don’t have a choice. And it’s not like throwing away my life out there even really matters, in the grand scheme of things.” He blinks a few times. “At least staying alive matters. We still have our promise, after all.”

Sylvain’s fingers card through his hair.

“Did you even keep the note? Or did you throw it away?” He really doesn’t like that possibility. “I mean, maybe it just got lost, or you were pissed at me and burnt it. It’s not like I didn’t give you plenty of opportunities for that.” Sylvain looks down at his hands and softly curls his fingers. “I hope you still have it, though. I have to believe in that.”

Another lengthy silence emerges. Nearly all the torches are burnt out, so it’s probably past midnight and he really should go to sleep, Sylvain thinks. As he gets up, he notices that Felix has thrown the blanket off of himself to a point where it’s about to fall down onto the floor. Felix seems to be stirring much more, too, so odds are the sleeping potion is wearing off.

“You look like you’re having nightmares,” Sylvain murmurs as he picks up the blanket and carefully drapes it over Felix. For the first time, Felix responds with a quiet whimper. Sylvain freezes for a moment, then begins to tuck him in. “Yeah, you definitely are. I’m sorry.”

Sylvain turns around and drags the chair closer to the cot. He hesitates for a moment, then takes Felix’s hand in his. Felix’s fingertips are cold, so Sylvain places his other hand on top to warm them.

“I guess now’s the time to pay you back, for when you stayed over all those years ago.”

It’s not exactly a fair return, if he’s being finicky; the bed is just big enough for one person, so the only option Sylvain has is to sleep in his chair. Or dragging the other cot over, and he doesn’t know whether Felix or Manuela are more likely to murder him for it in the morning.

So, of course, now he wants to do it even more. Sylvain hums in thought.

“Do you think I can do it without waking you up, Felix?”

Felix was already frowning before, so there really isn’t much Sylvain can work with. He probably shouldn’t, anyway. He can survive a lecture from Manuela, and he can probably also survive a fight with Felix. But the last thing he wants is doing something Felix wouldn’t be comfortable with. He’s long past the point of assuming consent.

“Yes, I know,” Sylvain mutters, “I could also go and sleep on the other bed without making such a fuss about it.” He smiles. “But where would be the fun in that?” He ignores the rational part of his brain telling him that he doesn’t need a sore back tomorrow. “I know this is me being selfish again, but I don’t want to sleep alone. Not with - well, tomorrow.”

Sylvain settles down on his chair, trying to find a comfortable position; he ends up pushing it all the way towards the wall next to Felix’s bed and leaning his head against the dark wood behind him. This isn’t so bad, actually.

“Alright, Felix. Don’t die in your sleep.” Sylvain pauses. “Or at all. I still need you to survive with me.”

He’s still holding Felix’s hand. With Felix turned onto his side, it’s not uncomfortable for either of them, and for once, Sylvain allows the thought that he could get used to this.

He looks outside the window. A cloud is moving in front of the moon. Usually, it would seem foreboding, but the additional darkness only helps him fall asleep.

* * *

Sylvain wakes up to an empty infirmary, a familiar white coat thrown over his shoulders and a piece of paper in his hand. When he opens the note, the first thing his eyes dart towards is the signature, and as much as he would like to be disappointed that it’s from Manuela and not from Felix - well.

_“When I walked in, I couldn’t help but feel a little jealous at what you two have, dear Sylvain, but it also gave me a lot of joy for what’s to come. You have to make sure both of you are alive to see the end of this horrible war - love blossoms much better during peacetime._  
_Manuela”_

Sylvain keeps the note with him through the hellscape of the following five years. In the freezing cold of his father’s presence at Gautier estate, it gives him all the warmth he needs.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for reading! If you want previews of Chapter 3 and my upcoming Sylvix Week projects, come say hi on Twitter at [@MiladyKora](https://twitter.com/MiladyKora) or [RT](https://twitter.com/MiladyKora/status/1300530082709209089?s=20) this fic! 
> 
> This chapter was brought to you by "writing the script by sitting down on a chair next to your bed, releasing your inner theater kid and adlibbing" (aka stand-up tragedy).

**Author's Note:**

> Should you want to commission me or just like to tip, I also have a [ko-fi](https://ko-fi.com/miladykora).


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